The Final Circle of Paradise

My reflexes are not what they used to be, but still I managed to duck a long black stream which whizzed by my ear and splashed against the wall. I regarded the boy with astonishment while he stared at me, lying on his side and holding the tube in front of him. His face was damp and his mouth twisted and open. I turned to look at the wall. The stuff was oozing down.

I looked at the boy again. He was getting up slowly, without lowering the tube.

"Well, well, brother, you are nervous!" said I.

"Stand where you are," said the boy in a hoarse voice." I did not say your name."

"To say the least," said I. "You did not even mention yours, and you fire at me like I was a dummy."

"Stand where you are," repeated the boy, "and don't move."

He backed and suddenly blurted in rapid fire, "Hence from my hair, hence from my bones, hence from my flesh."

"I cannot," I said. I was still trying to understand whether he was playing or was really afraid of me.

"Why not?" said the boy. "I am saying everything right."

"I can't go without moving," I said. "I am standing where I am."

His mouth fell open again.

"Hugger: I say to you – Hugger – begone!" he said uncertainly.

"Why Hugger?" I said. "My name is Ivan; you confuse me with somebody else."

The boy closed his eyes and advanced upon me, holding the tube in front of him.

"I surrender," I warned. "Be careful not to fire."

When the tube dented my midriff he stopped and, dropping it, suddenly went limp, letting his hands fall. I bent over and looked him in the face. Now he was brick-red. I picked up the tube. It was something like a toy rifle, with a convenient checkered grip and a flat rectangular flask which was inserted from below, like a clip.

"What kind of gadget is this?" I asked.

"A splotcher," he said gloomily. "Give it back."

I gave him back the toy.

"A splotcher," I said, "with which you splotch. And what if you had hit me?" I looked at the wall. "Fine thing. Now you won't get it off inside of a year. You'll have to get the wall changed."

The boy looked up at me suspiciously. "But it's Splotchy," he said.

"Really – and I thought it was lemonade."

His face finally acquired a normal hue and demonstrated an obvious resemblance to the manly features of Major General Tuur.

"No, no, it's Splotchy."

"So?"

"It will dry up."

"And then it's really hopeless?"

"Of course not. There will simply be nothing left."

"Hmm," said I, with reservation. "However, you know best. Let us hope so. But I am still glad that there will be nothing left on the wall instead of on my face. What's your name?"

"Siegfried."

"And after you give it some thought?"

He gave me a long look.

"Lucifer."

"What?"

"Lucifer."

"Lucifer," said I. "Belial, Ahriman, Beelzebub, and Azrael. How about something a little shorter? It's very inconvenient to call for help to someone with a name like Lucifer."

"But the doors are closed," he said and backed one step.

His face paled again.

"So what?"

He did not respond but continued to back until he reached the wall and began to sidle along it without taking his eyes off me. It finally dawned on me that he took me for a murderer or a thief and that he wanted to escape. But for some reason he did not call for help and went by his mother's door, continuing toward the house exit.

"Siegfried," said I, "Siegfried, Lucifer, you are a terrible coward. Who do you think I am?" I didn't move but only turned to keep facing him. "I am your new boarder; your mother has just fed me croutons and cream and you go and fire at me and almost splotched me, and now you are afraid of me. It is I who should be afraid of you."

All this was very much reminiscent of a scene in the boarding school in Anyudinsk, when they brought me a boy just like this one, the son of a sect member. Hell's bells, do I really look so much the gangster?

"You remind me of Chuchundra the Muskrat," I said, "who spent his life crying because he could not come out into the middle of the room. Your nose is blue from fear, your ears are freezing, and your pants are wet so that you are trailing a small stream…"

In such cases it makes absolutely no difference what is said. It is important to speak calmly and not to make sudden movements. The expression on his face did not change, but when I spoke about the stream, he moved his eyes momentarily to take a look. But only for a second. Then he jumped toward the door, fluttering for a second at the latch, and flew outside, dirty bottoms of his sandals flying. I went out after him.

He stood in the lilac bush, so that all I could see was his pale face. Like a fleeing cat looking momentarily over its shoulder.

"Okay, okay," said I. "Would you please explain to me what I must do? I have to send home my new address. The address of this house where I am now living." He regarded me in silence.

"I don't feel right going to your mother – in the first place, she has guests, and in the second-"

"Seventy-eight, Second Waterway," he said.

Slowly I sat down on the steps. There was a distance of some ten meters between us.